


The Face of the Deep (Covered by Darkness Overdub Mix)

by Marcia Elena (marciaelena)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-20
Updated: 2014-04-20
Packaged: 2018-01-20 01:39:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1492000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marciaelena/pseuds/Marcia%20Elena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam comes to Dean at night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Face of the Deep (Covered by Darkness Overdub Mix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EllieMurasaki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllieMurasaki/gifts).
  * Inspired by [In Your Eyes I See (A Fire That Burns)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/84189) by [EllieMurasaki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllieMurasaki/pseuds/EllieMurasaki). 



> Writing this unsettled me. It was supposed to be a gentler story; I don't know why it came out the way it did. So you might want to consider this a warning. Also, if parts of this are too weird-sounding, blame it on the wee hours of the night that this was written in.

Here is the where below. Here is the place that is not a place. 

It's been called many things. It's so ancient it's forgotten its true name. 

Here is _alive_. Here is a Beast, made of bone and flesh and blood and fear; there's a light here (trapped inside a cage, pulsing like a heart inside a ribcage), a light that once was pure but has become rage, has become vengeance. It drives the Beast on, gives a quenchless edge to its thirst.

Here is a horror. Here is a prison. Here _is_ , and time means nothing and everything, here. 

***

Here, where all souls end and begin again, Dean begins again.

***

Sam comes to him at night. When it's darker, when they're both tired, when they're both aching from the time spent apart. Dean would give anything (anything, he'd give anything for Sammy) to spend every possible moment with his brother, but they each have a role to play. They've both been chosen, anointed to do things they would not freely choose to do. 

But they choose this. This, here, when they couldn't (why couldn't they) before. They choose each other. 

The silver knife in Sam's hand is sharp, so sharp that Dean barely feels its prickling; it slices across his chest in a deliberate arc, blood blooming red and beautiful, vivid-hot against his clammy skin. The sting comes a moment later when sweat drips into the gash, but the pain is sweet and piercing (nothing new, nothing that he hasn't felt before, a thousand times, a hundred thousand), and Dean gasps when Sam makes another cut, and another, his dick jerking with every trace and curve that his brother etches into his body, each one as careful as the last. Sam's eyes glow red and yellow with reflected fire (black with reflected darkness) but Dean is unafraid; there's only truth in his brother's gaze. Truth, and love, and this, and _them_. 

Here, Dean has suffered. Here he's been torn apart, piece by piece and limb from limb more times than he could count. He's been reassembled more times than he could count, skin smooth and untouched again, every hair and sinew and cartilage and organ in its right place, made whole again (never whole again, there's always something missing) just so he could be mangled again. 

Dean feels it, still. He feels the ever-shifting mass of scars that he should be, shivering-shimmering all over his skin, under it, inside him. And Sam, Sam _sees_ those scars. He sees them, and he makes new ones, works for long moments as he draws protective symbols on Dean's skin with blade and blood alike (all magic is thought), carves runes into Dean's bones with the power of his mind (all thought is feeling). It's an orison, a ritual meant to protect him (all feeling is energy), a tender post-mortem meant to decipher him, help regenerate him (all energy is magic). 

And it does. It works. Sam heals him. Sam unravels him and weaves him back together in ways that no one else ever could.

"Sam," Dean breathes, feverish. "Sam." He writhes on their bed, held in place by nothing more than desire, by the sheer weight of love and trust between them. 

Words lose meaning here. Everything loses meaning, here. Sky, Dean thinks sometimes. Star, he wonders. The sounds are strange in his ears, foreign on his tongue; he doesn't know what they are. But Sam's name means everything. When Dean says it, he means _harder_ , _deeper_ , _more_. When Dean says it, he means _yours_.

And Dean hears it in Sam's voice, too. The same cadencies, the same promises. He feels it in his brother's touch, in Sam's thrusts as he finally fucks him, _mine mine mine mine_ , his mouth hungry against Dean's, his hands sure and ruthless as he demands a response from him, kneading, bruising. And Dean responds, arches his back and spreads his legs (his soul) wider, rocking up to grind against Sam, giving himself over to his brother, an offering (a sacrifice), everything he is, everything he could ever be right there for Sammy's taking. 

"Here," Sam whispers, kissing the word onto Dean's lips. "Here, this is where I am, Dean, this is where we are." He touches the tattoo on Dean's chest, slides his hand over him, lingering over his heart for an instant, then closing his fingers around Dean's amulet, holding on tightly, shoving into him at a desperate pace.

"Sammy," Dean whispers back, sobbing with pleasure. Begging with his entire being as he bears down on his brother's dick, stomach quivering, balls drawing tighter, breath coming faster. Their bodies rub together, smearing Dean's blood (their blood) all over their skin, force and friction pressing their mingled sweat like a salve into Dean's wounds, burning like benediction. And then Sam's coming, coming, filling him up with liquid-slick heat, his big hand reaching to wrap around Dean's cock, tugging roughly at him and Dean's so close, oh, so close... 

It surprised him the first time. And the second, and the tenth, the hundredth. It surprises him anew, every single night. How he can still dream, even here.

Here, where nights never last long enough. 

"Wakey, wakey," a voice murmurs in his ear. Cheerful. Amused.

Here, where every day is a nightmare waiting to be realized, Dean wakes up and opens his eyes. 

"Rise and shine," Alastair says, slowly circling Dean. He runs one hand over Dean's chest, in the same casually intimate manner one might pet a loved one. 

Dean shudders, bile rising in his throat. He struggles on his rack, naked and spread-eagled, pulling hard at the shackles binding his wrists and ankles and neck. They don't budge. They never do. "Fuck you," he rasps, his tone low and menacing as he spits the words out. But it's all bravado, and he knows that Alastair knows it. Terror lives inside him now; it trembles in the pit of his stomach, spreads slow and leaden through him, making him sick, threatening to overwhelm him. 

Alastair smirks. "Such fire in you, boy. I like that." His tools hang on the wall next to them (the wall that's only there when Alastair's there) and he picks a rusty, mean-looking iron hook. "But what do you say we work extra hard today, hmm? There must be a way for me to instill some respect into you." 

He steps nearer, then. Pushes closer, firmly, rougher, _in_. 

It doesn't take long for Dean to start screaming. And what he screams is the only thing that still holds any meaning for him. What he screams is _Sam_. 

What he means is _please_.

***

There, in the where above (God's Word, the story goes, but it's become the fare which sustains the Beast below), drowned in grief and whisky, Sam whimpers in his sleep. 

***

(Here. _Here_. This is where they are.)


End file.
